


tryna catch my breath some way (somehow)

by realmsoffreedom



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-03-20 17:36:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18997315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/realmsoffreedom/pseuds/realmsoffreedom
Summary: Gaius finds out about Arthur and Merlin. Arthur doesn't handle it well.





	tryna catch my breath some way (somehow)

**Author's Note:**

> um...hi? 
> 
> this is really weird. my best friend and i have been binging merlin since april (me, for the first time which she was outraged by and demanded be remedied immediately) and i.....am obsessed. this story happened out of nowhere and it's the first i've ever written for the fandom (although i do have a ton of other ideas and intend to publish quite a bit more). 
> 
> i should mention that there are descriptive panic attacks and anxiety in this story, so if that's a trigger, proceed with caution. 
> 
> otherwise, enjoy the story, and please do tell me what you thought!

The day Gaius finds out, his entire world falls apart. 

At least, that’s what it feels like, when glaciers erupt and pierce the skin beneath his hands and his entire body eclipses in the tidal wave. His heart is pounding and his fingers are shaking, adjusting to the world on their newly obtained puppet strings, unable to disentangle themselves from the clings of panic. It coats everything in its path, tsunami-style crests that drape his chest and burn. 

It’s hot, at first, and then it goes cold, the same time his body drifts from when it once was his own, slides out into the abyss of limbo, closer and closer into the unknown. He can’t move. He can’t speak. He can’t _breathe_ , for long enough without the air faltering and forcing him into a series of violent coughs, stuttering and shaking, _this can’t be happening I can’t do this I can’t breathe_ -

Merlin seems to understand instantly, pushes away from him and removes every trace, every point of contact from between their bodies. He takes a step back and stands, hands at his sides. He speaks, but Arthur doesn’t, _can’t_ hear anything. The words are garbled and jumbled and turning into full-on gibberish, by the time they reach him, like he’s been dunked under water and there’s an invisible force keeping him there, palm against the crown of his head, preventing him from rising to the surface.

There are voices and more sounds and people moving around him. He feels hands on his arms and bodies kneeling in front of his – there’s one point where he can tell it’s Gaius talking to him, the easily distinguishable tone of his voice overpowering Merlin’s and fighting its way to crack through the barrier Arthur’s already starting to build – and it all feels like too much. It’s all slamming into him, all sides, every color, unable to move or breathe or differentiate between reality and imaginary. 

He doesn’t remember how he got to his chambers.

His body turned itself on autopilot, navigated through town with some semblance of grace, enough so that there were no queries or questions or qualms, _is something wrong with the prince? The king’s heir doesn’t look okay, did you notice that? Is something wrong? Is the kingdom under attack?_

He’d never forgive himself if he’d given his people that idea, forced the thought of flurry into their minds, bled from his most vulnerable wound and let it eclipse him so externally that it stretched to them, turned him from beloved to basket case in one fell swoop.

And then, he’s in his chambers, pressing his back against the door, if only to feel the wood digging into the middle of his spine, trying to ground himself, to breathe, _come on, stop it. Stop doing this. You’re fine. You know how to breathe. You’re fine. Stop it. Breathe. You’re fine._

And he keeps repeating it, lets the words play from the broken record player in his brain and wash over him, _you’re fine. You’re fine. Everything’s fine. Breathe. You’re fine. Breathe._

But it isn’t, and he knows that, above all else, and he can’t push the realization away. He’s trying, to drape himself in reassurances and sweet nothings he knows will never be a reality, smother the painful words in promises that, _yeah, maybe it’ll be okay. Maybe this won’t be a big thing. Maybe Merlin and I can date and father won’t have a problem with it and I’ll be allowed to be happy. Maybe._

Maybe he’ll be allowed to have this, this one thing, that isn’t connected to the kingdom or the throne, this one thing that isn’t about Camelot or for Camelot, the first thing in his whole life he’s worked for and given endless amounts of time to, _for him._

Loving Merlin feels like a tsunami. The best kind of disaster. There are the highs and the lows, the ebbs and flows of such intense emotion, such powerful feeling that his heart just might tear itself out of his chest. Sometimes he feels it swell up, surge into his chest cavity and burst upward, as far as momentum will go, watching Merlin grin and giggle and give him the most brilliant of smiles, always. 

Most nights, Merlin will crawl into bed next to him – late, as usual, having just finished up Gaius’ chores for the night, tousled hair and pink cheeks, body slightly damp despite Arthur’s many reiterations, _you don’t have to run here, love. I’m not going anywhere_ – and tilt his head just enough to press a kiss against Arthur’s cheek. And sure, he’d drift off, doze into the first throes of slumber, but it is not until Merlin’s hair is tickling his nose and his back is pressed to his chest, that Arthur is able to fall asleep. 

He’s never slept better in his life. 

His chambers have always felt so…big. The rooms are beautiful and he’s grateful for the space, grateful to _be_ the crown prince of Camelot and to be given all of this, in conjunction, but sometimes, they feel empty. Everything does, really.

Sometimes the world surges up and eclipses him from below, swallows his skin in its twirling twister and eats him, whole. He’s there and then he isn’t and it all seems to happen so quickly. Sometimes he’s himself and other days he feels like a mere shell, ghosting, existing through life with a blindfold over his eyes, going through the motions and foregoing the feelings, doing whatever it takes to keep on breathing, _he just wants the best for you. He’s not trying to be awful. He just wants you to be the best version of yourself_.

He repeats it in his head, plays the mantra every time father expends a few choice words, _he just wants the best for you. He just wants the best for you. He just wants the bloody best for you, why are you being such a girl about it?_

_because Merlin doesn’t fit Father’s description of ‘the best for you’ and if he finds out about this, he’ll have him executed-_

_because Gaius knows now and if he tells Father everything is going to fall apart-_

_Everything is already falling apart_ , he thinks. His chest is tight. His body feels stiff. The air he takes in feels sticky, a fresh wave of pain to drape over his pile, reactivate the ache in his abdomen and send nausea traveling up. He doesn’t know how to get rid of the feeling. It hurts. All the time. Worse as the day goes on. It hurts. Everything hurts.

This was his and now it isn’t Merlin was his and now he isn’t the world is not his anymore he doesn’t get that lucky it won’t ever be that easy _stupid stupid stupid this is your own fault for thinking things would work out your own fault for being so naïve so dumb so fucking stupid_ -

He cries himself to sleep that night.

…

“How long has this been going on?”

Merlin shrugs. “Not long. Couple weeks? Maybe a month? I…” He sighs and shakes his head. “I know I’m Arthur’s first. Guy, you know? And I didn’t wanna put pressure on him, to like, label himself, or us, or anything, really. He needs time to figure everything out and I wanted to give him that.” 

“Merlin-”

“We thought we had more time,” he continues, softer now. He drops his gaze down to the floor and crosses one foot in front of the other. “We knew not everyone would be okay with it. You’re probably gonna go tell Uther as soon as we-”

“Merlin.” Gaius’ voice is firm. “Breathe, my boy. Of course I’m not going to do that. I would never.”

“But Arthur thought, he ran, that’s why-”

“Arthur has grown up around Uther openly condemning homosexuals, for his entire life.” Gaius exhales heavily and motions to the table. “Come. Sit. There’s no better time than now, for you to hear this.”

“What’s going on, Gaius?”

“For many years now, Camelot has warred with the Druids-”

“Yeah, I know. Uther hates magic and they use it.”

“Please let me finish, my boy,” Gaius sighs. “There’s much more to that story than you’ve been taught, I’m afraid.” Merlin gives a slight nod and pulls his bottom lip in with his teeth, pressing hard enough for the beginnings of an ache to form. 

“The Druids, not only do they practice magic, but they lead much more…open and accepting lives than those of Camelot. Homosexual marriage is quite normal, in their lands, just as much as man and woman coming together to wed. Particularly, just a few years before you arrived, news of a marriage between the leader of the Druids and his partner, had come to Camelot, and well…to put it lightly, Uther was far from pleased.”

“Gaius, did he-”

Gaius nods. “It’s what truly cemented Uther’s hatred of the Druids. He was furious. Why he was so bothered by something that has absolutely no effect on his own kingdom is beyond me, but he made sure every man, woman, and child in Camelot knew how much he disapproved of it,” Gaius mutters. “You’re fortunate to have missed all of this. Arthur, on the other hand, wasn’t so lucky.”

“You knew, didn’t you?” Merlin ventures. His heart feels like it’s dropped, pulled from the suspension in his chest and crashed all the way to the pit of his stomach, jagged shards embedding themselves in the walls and burning. The rest of him is numb.

“About you and Arthur? No, Merlin. I swear to you, I didn’t.” Gaius drops his head to look at the table. “I had my suspicions, but…a large part of me thought that Arthur was too afraid to pursue something like that, after everything that had happened.”

“Did you know he likes boys?”

“I don’t even think he knew that for certain, my boy. Not until he met you.”

“He was always scared,” Merlin starts to say, soft at first, then progressively louder, “when we were together, he always just- I’d lock the door to his chambers and he’d go check it and then kiss me and then check it again – even though he knows no one except me has complete access. It wasn’t me. He told me that. Uther just- Arthur couldn’t let him find out. And- and now…if he finds out, you said he was furious about the Druids, there’s no telling- god knows what he’ll do to me, I- what if-”

“Merlin-”

“It- it hasn’t gone very far at all, I promise.” The words come quickly. He’s not sure why his heart is racing. His hands have started shaking, almost vibrating from the sheer force, all on their own. He can’t calm down. This has never happened before. Fuck. He can’t calm down. Fuck. “I- we- we’ve only kissed, I-”

“Merlin! Merlin, please, take a deep breath.” Gaius rests a hand on his shoulder and pushes him against the back of the stool. “Sit. Calm down. Everything’s going to be okay.”

“How?” His voice breaks on the word, and he forces down the swallow, resting his elbows on the wood and pillowing his face in his hands. “How is everything- how is _Arthur_ going to be okay, after all of this?”

“He has you, my boy. That’s how.”

…

He can’t bring himself to look at Merlin. 

It’s stupid, really. A damn inconvenience, considering he’s trying to play the universe’s worst game of reverse hide and seek with his _manservant_ , of all people. Close his eyes and stand still long enough for his armor to be unfastened and feel his cloak pulled from over his shoulders, blink and stare at the floor as Merlin moves forward to take his sword. Pointedly avoid every instance of existence in the same space, the same look, the same _breath_ as each other, because when they’re not looking at one another, no one is speaking.

There are no silent conversations that limit themselves to corneas and speak the volumes of every word unable to be verbalized. No touches that border on too much – Merlin’s fingers ghost his body and do not linger for longer than is necessary. No exchanged glances in a language neither of them is sure how to speak. 

It’s a delicate game that they play, creeping across tightropes and dancing into the tiniest patches of light, grasping for the last of the straws that will keep the act from falling apart. 

Merlin isn’t boyfriend, but he isn’t just his manservant, either. The line between the two is blurry, tainted blue by the remnants of the life that could be-

They could date. He’d get to court Merlin. Hold his hand in the palace halls and sit beside him when he takes the throne, capture his face in Arthur’s hands and press their lips together and know, for the first time in Arthur’s entire life, that he is more.

More than his father’s heir, more than the crown prince of Camelot, more than his existence as future king, resistant to all traces of desire that stretch farther than duty and destiny and what’s detrimental to the kingdom. 

No. Merlin is for him, and that’s all he can think, when he looks at him. And it brings the tears. It has his eyes burning and the lump in his throat respawning. It’s why his breath leaves him, why every glance feels like someone’s gone and twisted the pit of his stomach, turned till it’s torn, until everything hurts, until all he can feel is pain and panic and the _premonition_ …the guards taking Merlin away, condemning him to the dungeons to rot until dawn, the entirety of Camelot coming together to watch his execution…

No. _No_.

Arthur blinks rapidly against the tears in his eyes and keeps his gaze low to the ground. “That’ll be all, Merlin. You’re dismissed for the day. Thank you.”

They are simply master and manservant. Nothing more.

…

“D’you want me to send someone else?”

“What?”

“Another servant,” he says. The words feel foreign around his tongue, to thick for it to wrap itself around, clumsy. “I just thought, after everything- I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable. I know you need some time. And it probably won’t help if you’re seeing my face all day.” He tries to punctuate with a chuckle, but it sounds as forced as it feels. 

Arthur is quiet for a few moments. His back is to him. Merlin pulls his lip in with his teeth and busies himself in fiddling with the bedsheets. 

He doesn’t _want_ to stop serving Arthur. The thought of it feels like his stomach is dropping to his feet, like a foreign force has battered its way in and scooped out every ounce of what’s making him whole. He’s not himself without Arthur. That reality is an existence he was never meant to exist in. His place is by Arthur’s side, and he knows no different.

He never _wants_ to know different.

“Oh, and, for what it’s worth.” He doesn’t realize he’s speaking again until he’s hearing the words in his own voice. “I talked to Gaius, and- he’s not going to say anything. He wouldn’t. He’s in support – of whatever we decide to do. Which you probably don’t want to do anything and I know you need your space and I promise I’m not trying to rush you-”

“Shut up, Merlin.”

“Arthur-”

Arthur turns slightly, only half-facing him, at this point. His eyes are bloodshot, redder than they were ten minutes ago, when Merlin was undressing him. “Bright and early tomorrow, alright?”

…

It happens again.

He’s once again unable to breathe, pressing hand to chest and trying to see through constant tears, panting, sweating, shaking, _I can’t breathe it’s happening again it’s happening again can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t_ -

He’s trying, attempting to force air in and out of his lungs in a way that doesn’t feel particularly painful. Every breath feels like a fresh sheet of ache, a new paint layer of pain that drapes itself around the previous one and adds to the pile, builds on top of one another until his chest feels like it could explode. 

He can feel sweat dripping down the back of his neck. His body keeps drifting, hot, cold. Hot, cold. It’s a vat of ice and then the furies of an inferno, flames licking up his back and freezing quicker than they can be reborn. 

He can’t lose Merlin.

He won’t be okay it can’t happen _I need him I can’t breathe he can’t leave me what am I supposed to do without him how am I supposed to do this without him I can’t have anyone else I can’t_ -

He thinks of Merlin. Of his arms winding around Merlin’s waist, tracing down his spine until his hands rested just above Merlin’s arse and their chests met in unison. Merlin’s lips brushed his and his arms slid easily around Arthur’s neck. 

He thinks of the hugs that followed – always, Merlin was reluctant to leave with just a kiss – how he could finally drape himself against another body, breathe out and buoy himself against the turbulent tides, _it’s okay. It’s safe. This is safe. Merlin’s here and you’re safe. Breathe. Merlin’s here and you’re safe_.

He thinks and he tries to breathe but the reality is that Merlin _isn’t_ here and he _isn’t_ safe nothing about this is safe _if father finds out Merlin’s dead if the news gets out the kingdom will hate you everyone will hate you what if Merlin doesn’t want to be your servant anymore what if he leaves you’ll be alone you’re alone all alone you’re all alone_ -

His chest heaves and he squeezes his eyes shut. He tries to stop, tries to bring air in and hold on to it for long enough that it can perform its purpose, water the parched structures of fragmented bones that make up his fractured chest, make the pain go away, _please make it stop hurting I can’t keep doing this it hurts too much_ -

“Head between your knees.”

“H-huh…” He tries to speak, but the word comes out as more of a gurgle. The voice sounds distant, almost like it’s underwater. He pushes his head up but everything comes blurry and blinking doesn’t help. It’s starting to become even harder to breathe.

“Arthur. Listen to me. My voice, okay? Nothing else.” Another force pushes his head down between his legs and he gasps desperately. The bands around his chest feel a little looser. He trembles, far too shaky and dizzy to move. “That’s good. You’re okay. Keep breathing.”

He doesn’t know how much time has passed – it definitely feels like at least a few minutes, possibly even ten – but finally, he’s able to lift his head and keep it up, uncrunch his body and straight against the back of the chair – he can barely remember sitting down, at this point – and see straight. 

“Morgana?” He turns his head to the side to look at her, kneeling next to him, folds of her dress gathered in one fist, other hand on his back.

She shoots him a small smile and rises to her feet. “How long has it been since your last…?”

She doesn’t finish the question, and there it stays, lingering amongst thin air and draping over him stickily. He watches her take a seat across from him and exhales, long and heavy. 

“I don’t remember.”

“Bullshit.”

“Morgana-”

“You’re a bad liar, brother.” Another thin smile is sent his way, this time, less pitied and sympathetic. “You’ll feel better if you tell me.”

“I’ll feel worse either way,” he quips, raising a hand to his head. The panic is voracious, and he always finds himself decades from vivacious, by the end. It feels like he’s going to collapse. Holding his body upright in this sitting position is zapping the little energy he has left. It’s barely afternoon, but he wants to be in bed.

“I passed Merlin on my way in. Would him crying have something to do with it?”

His chest twinges and starts to spark again. He swallows against the reforming lump in his throat and forces in a heavy gulp of air, _he stops being your servant and you’re all alone you’re alone you’re alone you’re_ \- “Drop it. Please.”

“You broke up with him, didn’t you?”

“What? How did you-” _How did she know does everyone know how bad were we at hiding this what if the entire castle knows what if father knows he can’t_ \- He tries to remind himself to breathe over the mantra berating his brain, tries to keep the air steady. He can’t go through another one again. Not this soon. 

“Oh come on, Arthur. A blind man could see it.” She pauses and rolls her eyes. “Well, any blind man except father dearest, anyway.”

“Morgana, we were never together. We- we couldn’t be. He’s a servant and a _he_ -” He pauses to inhale again. “And I’m the prince, it’s not- it can’t- I’m doing him a favor.” He finally settles upon. “If father were to find out, he’d be in the cells, awaiting his death.”

“Yeah, alright. Keep telling yourself that, Arthur.”

“What else can I do?”

Morgana rolls her eyes. “Not make your life – and his, for that matter – miserable based on some bullshit views Uther has.”

“He’s my father!” Arthur snaps. “He’s grooming me to become the next king! What the hell else am I supposed to?”

“Not follow in his footsteps?” Morgana raises an eyebrow and leans forward in her chair. “Not become Uther the second? Arthur, you’re going to be king. Do you even realize what that means?”

“I’m meant to uphold the customs and traditions this land has observed, for all the years to come.”

“Gods, you are so thick sometimes,” Morgana mutters, with a loud sigh. “Do you work at having no sense, or does it just happen?”

“If you just came in here to criticize me…”

“I _came in here_ to tell you that you’re making a mistake, Arthur,” Morgana says. “You’re letting him go too easy.”

“You think this is _easy_ , for me?” He snaps. “Did he tell you he’s considering sending someone else to take his place? He may never want to be my servant again! We used to spend all our time together and now I’m lucky if I see him once a day.” The lump in his throat throbs. He squeezes his eyes shut against the burn of tears and drops his head. “And to top it all off, apparently, I can’t bloody breathe anymore.”

He hears footsteps, and then there’s a hand on his back. “What happened? Start from the beginning, and don’t spare me any details.”

“Gaius walked in on us,” he mumbles, voice thick. The ache blossoms behind his eyes, flowering and splattering itself against his skull. Everything hurts. His body is heavy and his head feels like it was stuffed full of cotton. “Like, just kissing. But he’s one of my father’s most trusted advisors and Merlin said he wouldn’t tell but I can’t help but just-”

“Slow,” Morgana reminds. “Breathe. You’re working yourself up again.”

He swallows heavily. “We can’t be too careful. You know how my father feels about the Druids, I just- I can’t, Morgana. I can’t risk it. But I can’t lose him, either. It’s only been a couple days and it feels like a lifetime.”

“You really love him, don’t you?”

“He just…” Arthur sighs. He pauses for a few moments, and then shakes his head, “to all of Camelot and every kingdom beyond, I’m Prince Arthur. And everyone expects so much of me. And sometimes it’s too hard.” He shakes his head and turns to meet her eyes. “But with him, I’m just Arthur. And he’s just Merlin. And it’s easy.”

Morgana smiles at him. “All the more reason not to let Uther’s stupid prejudices tear you guys apart. He makes you happy, Arthur. You deserve to be with him. You deserve to be happy.”

“But what if-”

“Thick _and_ paranoid, are we?” Morgana rolls her eyes. “Bloody hell. You already have Gaius’ blessing, would it make you feel better if I said that you could use my chambers, as well? I’ll have a guard stand watch and Gwen on standby, even though no one’s allowed in my chambers without permission. You and Merlin would be free.”

“Morgana-”

“But if I come back to find you shagging in my bed, I’ll murder you both and make it look like an accident.”

“Morgana!”

…

Merlin doesn’t stop being his servant.

And it’s a good thing, too. He’s sure that if he were to wake up to George bringing him breakfast and helping him dress, he wouldn’t have been able to handle it. He knows he wouldn’t have been able to handle it. George is great, brilliantly trained and exceptional at his job, but he’s not Merlin.

He’s not the soft hands and deft fingers fastening his armor, not armed with even a hint of sarcasm or wit, not able to tell by the slightest change in body language or simple a shift in weight, not jokes or laughs or arms against his side and around his waist, _I’ve got you, I’m here, you’re not alone_ , enough times that Arthur actually believes it. 

It’s the touch he imagines he’d miss most, Merlin draping garments around his shoulders, sliding shirts over his head, fastening buckles on his arm plate, looking down at his body with that expression of concentration, smiling once he’s gone back to grab his sword and admiring his handiwork.

_I do a good job, if I do say so myself._

_Only ‘cause you’ve got a good base to work with._

_I didn’t realize I was dressing Leon all these days; remind me to thank him for his service_.

And he would stare, open-mouthed, and Merlin’s lips would curl up in the biggest grin, and it would all end in a kiss he wished would last forever. His mouth against Merlin’s and their chests pressed together, laughing against his lips and squeezing him like the hug was their last. 

And it only felt right, having those moments with Merlin before he headed off into battle. 

And that’s why it hurts, why it feels like he’s being torn in two, caught in the middle of rivaling tides that spew flames over everything until all that’s left has been burned to a crisp. That’s why the thought of this, _losing this_ , weighs so heavy in his stomach. Everything else is alight and scorching, and he is drowning, carried off by the tides in seas of his uncertainty, doomed to the waters in a realm of shrinking possibility.

Losing Merlin doesn’t feel like an option. It’s right there; the evil twin of his decision to put the kingdom first, but the havoc it’ll wreak on his life is enough to have him reconsidering. And he knows it shouldn’t be about him, _your duty is to your people, Arthur. Only then will you prove yourself as a worthy king of Camelot_. 

Morgana believes he can have both, but he doesn’t share her desire to deviate from Uther’s decrees. She has nothing to lose. He’s going to be king.

He knows the necessary sacrifices to be made for the throne. He knows that his kingdom is only as strong as his leadership. He knows he needs to be more, elevate himself past any pedestal for the people to see that he will be good. He will do good. He will lead and he will succeed, and it will all be for them. Everything he does will be with them in mind, for their benefits and the longevity of a flourishing kingdom that is strong and noble and _honest_. 

…

Merlin’s hands are shaking.

It’s not profuse, not evident enough that anyone coming across them would notice it. His ruse is in place and perfected, as he presses Arthur’s breastplate to his body and fastens the cloak around his neck. His hands are just moving quicker than they would usually, intoxicated off some imaginary caffeine as Merlin makes his way around to pick up Arthur’s sword.

“Are you- is everything alright?” He ventures. He keeps his voice level and tries not to stare at Merlin’s backside – _is this what being in love is like? Finding beauty where things merely used to just exist_? ¬– notes that he’s never noticed Merlin’s arse until now, like threads of his attention have been pulled and attached to various places of Merlin’s body, his cheekbones and messy hair and the way he smiles when Arthur calls him an idiot or tells him to shut up. 

The way he walks around the castle like he knows it, as if he was born to be there, the grins he returns from the townspeople, the way his hands, his chest, his _presence_ glide so easy into the parts of Arthur that he’s worked to keep so sheltered from the light. The parts of himself that are less prim and proper, less teemed full of princely goodness or battle etiquette, that extend themselves beyond any semblance of his role in the castle and splay outward, on full display, under Merlin’s caring gaze. 

He is not Prince Arthur when he is with Merlin. He is less, but he is also more. Blossoming and beaming and _bleeding_ through, with the force of normalcy, the sense that tears through every boundary of belligerence and leaves behind the bounty of who he’s always wanted to be. 

When he is with Merlin, the real Arthur unearths himself from mounds of ingenuity and bears itself entirely, unaided by choice words or fabricated facades. 

“…tired, sire,” Merlin is saying. Arthur turns, feels the word detach itself from the end of Merlin’s sentence and barrel straight into his raw chest. 

_Sire_?

“Merlin-”

“Your knights will be waiting.” Merlin doesn’t look at him again. “Good luck, my lord.”

…

He barely wins the tournament. 

The victory, in the end, results primarily from his opponent’s collapse due to sheer exhaustion he was feeling before the match even started, rather than Arthur’s expert demonstration of his battle skills. The man falls before he has a chance to get a good blow in, airing on the side of ‘should’ve withdrawn but was too stubborn to back down from a fight against the prince’ than anything.

He usually concludes these tournaments with a few hours in Gaius’ chambers, having poultices and salves smeared over various parts of his body as Gaius works to dress each open wound. Sometimes it takes long enough that he falls asleep in the physician’s rooms, thoroughly spent from the day’s events and unable to rally any more energy. 

The past few times, Merlin’s woken him, and, with gentle hands on his shoulder and back, speaking quietly to him the entire time – _you are so close to falling back asleep and you’re the one with the mental affliction if you think I’m going to carry you_ – led him up to his own chambers. In the wake of the recent couple of tournaments, after he’d kissed Merlin for the first time and the soft caresses and sweet embraces showed no sign of stopping, Merlin had crawled into bed after him, taken over as the big spoon and stroked his hair until he’d fallen asleep. 

It’s a little routine they have unconsciously adopted, molded into and become one with, with close to no thought. Merlin just _fits_ into the methodical movements, slides in and adds an element of peace to the post-tournament high that brings Arthur back down to Earth so much easier. The quotidian rhythm he’s fallen into accentuates and crescendos upward, in the presence of the manservant that has inevitably become so much more. 

He _is_ so much more, than Arthur’s manservant. More than his friend or his companion or the person that knows him better than he knows himself, even. Merlin is the breath of fresh air he didn’t know he needed, the wisp of newness that forces his body into foreign flight. He’s soaring, higher than he ever has, and the world feels limitless. 

Loving Merlin feels limitless. 

White spots blur and overwhelm his vision, and he stops, pulls himself out of his thoughts and shakes his head vigorously. “Bloody hell, Merlin. That hurts!”

Merlin winces and meets his gaze, pauses with his salve-coated hands halfway to Arthur’s naked torso. “Sorry, sire. Are you sure you don’t want me to send for Gaius? I’m sure he’d do a better job than I am.”

There it is again. _Sire_. The word, somehow, doesn’t feel like an intruder, a bad taste in his mouth that makes him want to physically recoil, when it comes from any lips besides Merlin’s. From him, it’s different. It’s formal, and meant to be so, but it feels jagged around the edges, sharper than his best sword, piercing into the deepest part of his heart and embedding itself there. _Sire. Sire. Sire_. 

“No, just-” He shifts in place and screws his face up at the reactivation of the ache. “Hurry it up, please.” The words come through gritted teeth and function as more of a grunt, than anything. 

“Very well, sire.”

“Why do you keep calling me that?” He demands.

“Is that not how I’m meant to address you, my lord?” Merlin looks up again. Arthur can see his hands shaking. “I’m your servant, after all.”

“Shut up, _Mer_ lin,” he grounds out, gritting his teeth as Merlin presses against a particularly sore part of his ribcage. “You know damn well you’re more than that.”

Merlin is quiet for a few moments. He reaches for a towel and wipes his hands wordlessly, pointedly staring at the floor. “Am I?” He asks, finally. 

Arthur exhales. He blows out the breath and draws another one in, _breathe. You’re fine. Don’t freak out. This is fine. You can do this_. “Listen, I just- I needed time to- there’s stuff, Merlin. Stuff you still don’t know and it just…” He trails off with another gasping breath. This can’t happen right now. He doesn’t know why he gets like this whenever the subject’s brought up, why some switch inside him flips and a button gets pushed and he’s in flight mode, automatically. 

“I wanted you to have time,” Merlin says. He stands and then joins Arthur on the bench. Arthur notices the inch of space he leaves between their bodies, and his heart throbs. The knife wedges further, bypassing bone and entering the deepest narrows of the hunk of muscle in his chest. “You freaked out, and I- I didn’t want to make that worse.”

“You were right,” he offers. “For once.”

“Gaius told me,” Merlin admits. “Everything. About the Druids. How Uther reacted. I- I’m sorry, Arthur. I had no idea.”

“How could you have?” He forces out. “No one talks about it. S’not like it’s anything to be proud of.”

“Arthur-”

“It isn’t that I don’t have feelings for you,” he mutters. “It isn’t you. It’s just…my father is very- set in his ways, you know? He won’t bend for anyone. Not even his own son.” He pauses and drinks in another heavy gulp of air. _Breathe_. “And I- I’m scared. And I know that what he thinks doesn’t matter, but it does. It matters, until he’s gone and I’m king and I don’t have to _feel like this_ , anymore.” 

The lump in his throat is throbbing by the end. He can feel liquid burning at the corners of his eyes, masking the room in blur and threatening to fall. He keeps his gaze on the floor; he can hear Merlin shifting next to him, wheels whirring in his head as he calculates how to respond to that, but he doesn’t look up. He can’t look up.

His breath hitches as Merlin closes the space between their bodies. He feels Merlin’s hand on his back and glares pointedly downward, inhaling and exhaling, _this is so stupid. You’re fine. Breathe. You’re absolutely fine_. 

“Honestly?” Merlin says, finally. “I’m scared too. Gaius told me what happened after the leader of the Druids got married. And it’s not like- you’re the king’s son, it’s- he’d have me executed if he found out. No question.”

“Are you saying you want to end this?” The question snatches what little air he has away. His stomach is sinking to his knees. It feels hollow, pain slowly making its way into the empty spaces. Everything hurts. 

“Do you not want to?” Merlin’s voice drops, low and soft, “it seemed like- I thought that was what you wanted. You ran away from me and then didn’t speak to me for three days.”

“Shut up, just-” He reaches for Merlin’s other hand and closes his eyes, intertwines his fingers with Merlin’s and squeezes his hand once, and again, opening and closing his fingers as he tries to get his breath back. _Merlin’s hand. Merlin’s body. Merlin_. 

“Arthur, what are you-”

“I want this.” The words come out in more of a gasp. He pants, slow and heavy, finally opens his eyes and meets Merlin’s. “You. I want- I want us together, okay? I can’t imagine it otherwise.”

“But…?” Merlin trails off knowingly, beginning to rub his thumb back and forth against Arthur’s palm. 

His chest is finally starting to loosen. _Merlin’s touch. Merlin’s voice. Merlin_. The breaths are back to normal, coming so fast they almost overwhelm as he drinks in precious oxygen. His body his heavy but everything is settling. The bugs underneath his skin have retreated back to their places within, and the world is calm again. 

“Well,” he says. He brings his other hand to wrap around Merlin’s and tightens his grip. “Considering the fact that you’re the first person I’ve wanted to spend the rest of my life with, I’d rather you _weren’t_ executed in the morning.”

Arthur’s heart is hammering in his chest. The panic is dying but his fear is still alive, still active, still toying with the pocket of feelings he’s just torn open, ones housed so deep in his chest, unavailable in any capacity for the world to have its way with. 

Merlin is staring at him, eyes wide. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t make any move to budge himself out of Arthur’s grip. “You mean that?”

Arthur nods. 

When their lips meet, it feels like every bit of the air he’s missed in the past week is dosing itself back into his veins, wrought with the passion of every moment lost, a mere few days that feel like forever. Merlin’s lips are soft and his hold is warm. He cups Arthur’s cheek and Arthur slips an arm around his back, and breathes.

He breathes. 

And they kiss again.

…

“Arthur…hey, wake up.”

He groans at the hand shaking his shoulder and tilts his head further downward. “M’rlin…m’sleeping.”

“Gaius asked me to come see him early today,” Merlin whispers. He pushes against Arthur’s arm. “You gotta let me go, love.”

“No,” he mumbles. He pushes his nose into the crook of Merlin’s shoulder and tightens his hold around his waist. Merlin’s body is warm against his own, primed from the night under the covers and soft next to him. “Stay with me.”

“Gaius said-”

“Gaius can live without you for a day.”

“He’s doing us a favor by lying to Uther,” Merlin reminds. “And I’m pretty sure he didn’t expect me to be spending every night with you. Did you know I can’t remember the last time I slept in my own bed?”

“My bed is comfy. And it has me in it.”

“Clotpole.” Merlin shifts in his arms, turns onto his other side, and Arthur feels his lips against his cheek seconds later. He smiles through half-lidded eyes and lifts a heavy hand to drag through Merlin’s hair, simultaneously pulling him closer with his other arm. 

He remembers the talk with Gaius, once they had agreed to stay together. He remembers the emotion that swelled in his throat as Gaius reassured him that he had no intention of ever letting anyone else find out. _Your secret is yours, my dear boy. And it will be so until you decide you no longer wish to hold onto it for yourself. Until you’re ready to share Merlin with the world, he will be just yours_. 

Gaius too offered his efforts as a guard, joining Morgana in the ranks of those who have no problem lying to his father. His chambers, like hers, are a place they can go without worry of being discovered. It’s for the better that Gaius knows, really; hiding things from him would’ve never seen their relationship through, and having him in on the situation adds another layer of safety. 

He spends his nights with Merlin and his days, with Morgana, seeking her counsel on things he’d never foreseen and trying to probe just a little bit deeper into the fondness in her eyes when Guinevere enters a room. They gossip through the mornings and watch the days bleed into afternoon, put on not-so-casual acts when Uther wants to have a meal together, and give themselves side stitches laughing over how gullible the man truly is. 

He hasn’t felt this good in weeks. The time that’s passed since that day in his chambers feels blurry and distinct, at the same time. Vivid flashes of various moments, fuzzy and tinged warm around the edges, wrapping the jagged parts of his mind in blankets. There’s a dose of light that’s bleeding into the dark, into the broken, and starting to glue some of the pieces back together.

He was never truly broken, but the puzzle is coming back together and he’s beginning to feel whole again. 

And it feels limitless. 

It’s the warm nights and the cold nights and the mundane days in between, holding onto the hope, the anticipation, _tonight, when we’re alone, this doesn’t have to be a secret anymore. Tonight, I am his and he is mine. And the night is young and the world is beautiful. And we know, at that moment, that there is nothing, no primordial force or threat of terror, that can tear us apart._

 _We are each other and the world is infinite_.


End file.
